She worked quickly to mix a paste from dried yarrow to press over the open wounds from the slugs, and ordered Maggie about to steep a decoction of peppermint and clove to dribble down the woman’s throat.
Maris lost track of time. She vaguely remembered Thomas returning with Bernice, the smith’s daughter, and hardly took note of when Dirick stepped over to assist her or Maggie. The silence that hovered as she worked became monotonous and hung like death over the small, bleak house.
Time blurred. Maggie brewed a draught from herbs meant to ease the pain, and Maris helped her choke it down Mary’s parched throat. The woman breathed ever so slowly. Her hands remained cold and clammy while her face suffused with heat. Soft groans of pain emitted from her dried and cracked lips. The other women bathed her and found too much blood still coming from between her legs.
At last, she had no choice. “Sir Dirick,” Maris said as she turned to him, brushing the hair from her eyes. He looked down at her, comprehension in his face. “Go you to seek Father Abraham.”
Thomas’s eyes widened, then his stare dropped to the dirt floor of the hut. “My lady,” he whispered, moving to the bed to grasp his wife’s lax hand.
Maris didn’t know what time it was when Mary finally stopped breathing. With a muffled exclamation, she fell on the bed next to her patient, frantically feeling her chest for the beat of a heart, then put her cheek near Mary’s mouth in hopes of feeling the soft, labored breath that had kept the woman alive. Nothing. She looked slowly up at Maggie, struggling to keep her tears in check.
Dirick arrived with the priest moments later. Maris stood wearily and stepped back from the bed to allow Father Abraham to shrive the woman. She leaned against the wall, passing a grimy hand over her cheek, and her gaze was caught by Dirick’s. His face was grim and his eyes soft as they looked at her with admiration and regret.
She shook her head, turning away, feeling as though she’d failed miserably—and in front of him. Had she or Maggie been aware of Mary’s condition before the leech was brought in, perhaps she could have prevented the bleeding that most assuredly cost her her life. The struggle to give birth to two large boys, and the subsequent loss of blood was simply exacerbated by the bloodletting.
What does it matter now? she thought, wiping away a tear that suddenly appeared. She had done what she could and the woman had died.
Good Venny told her that when God called someone there was naught she could do to prevent that person from going. There would be many times when she would succeed, but she could not work against God’s will.
“’Twill be a hard lesson to learn, Maris,” he’d told her somberly. “You may learn it early, you may take years to learn it. But you must never question your gift of the ability to heal. You are blessed to be chosen, to save God’s people when ill befalls them. Use your gift, but do not seek to play God.”
She wished he were here now.
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back before Sir Dirick saw them. Plucking at Maggie’s sleeve, she whispered, so as not to disturb the prayers of the priest, “I must go.”
With that, she slipped quickly from the hut.
Dirick found her not far from the cooper’s hovel, leaning against a tree, staring at the ground. He approached without speaking, knowing that the sound of his boots crunching through the icy snow would announce his presence.
Standing to the side, he took a moment to observe the woman, allowing his gaze the leisure of absorbing every detail. The hood of her brilliant blue cloak had fallen back, leaving her head bare and thick strands of rich brown hair fluttering in the breeze. Her nose and cheeks were red, whether from the chill or from weeping, he did not know. She stood motionless, like a tree herself, her chest rising and falling under the heavy cape.
Dirick felt something warm seep through his limbs, warming him even in the coldness. He’d never seen a woman act so decisively, so magnificently in the face of such strife and danger. She’d worked so hard to save the dying woman, and he had been able to do naught but stand back and watch. Doubtless she’d known from the instant she stepped foot within that the woman would perish, but Maris had worked urgently to save her.
Even now, he could see the results of her efforts in a rusty streak of blood across her cheek, and the disheveled look of her hair and shiny dampness of her face. He had never seen a noblewoman look so unkempt…so work roughened…and yet, so noble.
It was no wonder her father adored her.
Maris turned suddenly, surprising him in his study of her. Her eyes were red rimmed and faintly bloodshot, and the tip of her nose quite scarlet. She looked at him with a mixture of resignation and embarrassment, and Dirick struggled to find something to say. Words of comfort usually sprang easily to his lips when he was faced with consoling a woman whose gown had been stained, or one whose feelings had been hurt by another…and all at once, those moments seemed as superficial as the veneer of ice over snow when faced with a woman such as Maris of Langumont.
“You have a great gift,” he spoke finally, his words rough, rumbling from a throat tight with emotion.
She sighed. “’Twas not enough of a gift this day, I fear.”
She stepped away from the tree and started toward him. A tremulous smile quirked her mouth, and a small dimple echoed it in her chin. “I have yet to learn, as my mentor tried to teach me, that despite many lives saved, there are others that I cannot turn from God’s will.” Her face saddened and her eyes took on a faint sheen. She blinked quickly and brusquely turned to pick up her pouch of medicinals, starting off toward the keep’s walls.
Feeling clumsy and inarticulate, Dirick was moved to action. He took Maris’s arm and gently propelled her so that she looked up at him. For a moment, he stilled, looking down into her beautiful face, streaked with tears and blood, her chin quivering as she valiantly tried to hold back her emotions. Her eyes seemed to beg for him to speak, and he groped mentally for something that would cause the pain to melt away.
“’Tis amazing to me, Lady Maris, that we men should spend our lives seeking war, when you should work so hard to save a simple life. The wars are fought for lands and riches, yet you would spend all of the day slaving to save the life of a simple peasant. It shames me, and at the same time, I’m filled with admiration for you.”
Snow drifted lightly down from a graying sky. Maris tilted her face up, catching one of the filigree flakes on her pink cheek, and blinked quickly. “Thank you, Sir Dirick.”
“Aye, and I know the pain of losing a loved one,” he added, his sensitivity allowing the grief of the loss of his father to bubble to the surface.
She looked at him. “Praise God, I cannot say the same. Though ’tis nearly as bad if a patient dies,” she added. “Was your loss recent?”
He nodded but remained silent, looking at her and then needing to tear his eyes away. “The sun is lowering. We must return.”
With a short nod, she slipped the strap of her pouch over her shoulder and gestured toward the river. “I must find a bit of bearberry before we return,” she told him apologetically. “’Tis for my father.”
“Of course.” With an effort, Dirick threw off the heaviness of grief and sobriety that had cast a pall over them and summoned a smile. “Lead on, my lady.”
They were nearing the edge of the village and the huge stone wall of Langumont Keep loomed ahead of them when she stopped and crouched on the ground.
Dirick watched as she knelt to dig in the icy snow with a stick. Maris made a comely picture—squatting near the snow, her deep blue cloak a swirl on the brilliant white, her dark head silhouetted against a nearby drift. Thick locks of hair had fallen from her braid during the day, and now light wisps of it blew about her face, dancing against a pink cheek and catching at the corner of her mouth. In the clear light of day, despite the waning sun, he could see that the color of her hair was a mixture of many shades of brown and rich with red, gold and topaz—just as vibrant as she was.
When Maris looked up at him, she caught him by surprise and he blinked to recover his normal expression. She didn’t seem to notice his besotted look, and she gestured to the patch where she’d cleared away the snow.
“Look you here,” she pulled at his cloak, and he kneeled down next to her. Shiny, dark green leaves clustered under the snow, cluttered with dried leaves and branches. A few red berries still clung tenaciously to the sturdy mahogany stems, but she ignored those and began to pluck the leaves.
“’Tis called bearberry?” he asked.
“Aye,” Maris explained, stuffing the leaves into a leather pouch that she’d pulled from the folds of her cloak. “It’s a wonder the leaves are still here under all this snow,” she remarked.
Dirick started to pull some of the berries from the plant. “Need you the berries as well?” he asked, proffering a small handful.
“’Tis only the leaves are good for steeping in a draught. They help fluids pass easily from the body. The berries are beautiful, but I know of no use for them.”
“Ah, I see,” he tossed the dark red berries onto the snow where they scattered like drops of blood.
He turned to clearing away more ice while she picked as many fresh leaves as they could find. Their heads were bent together and he was close enough that a light lock of her hair tossed daintily against his cheek. The fresh scent of lemon and another smell he could not identify reached his nose above the crisp cold of winter. It was so very different from the thick floral scents favored by the ladies at court.
“’Tis pretty,” he said without thinking, sniffing lightly.
Maris turned and the smell became stronger. “Pardon?” she asked, her green and gold eyes so close that he could count the thick lashes that framed them.
“’Tis lemons. I smell lemons and another scent,” he said quickly, moving away from her.
Dirick felt her smile all the way to the pit of his stomach. “’Tis a soap for my hair,” she told him, “It cleans it well and makes it smell fresh. Lemon verbena and mint and rosemary,” she explained.